The problem was, he had no idea what the hell he could do. Dani was correct in that he could probably get some kind of bullshit ceremonial gig or collect a few seats on boards. But he wanted to do something real. It didn’t have to be capital-I important like Marie’s work. He didn’t have her save-the-world personality. It merely had to mean something to someone, and to him.
But what was really puzzling him wasn’t the content of his astonishing outburst so much as the fact of it. All of these thoughts had been rolling around in his head for a while, but they weren’t something he’d ever imagined saying out loud.
Dani was just so easy to talk to. He liked her so much. She listened to what he said and said smart, clear-eyed things back, and she did not run those things through an “I am talking to a member of the aristocracy” filter. Hell, half the time he thought she listened not only to what he said but to what he meant.
He wanted to talk to her pretty much all the time. So, never one to deny himself something he wanted when it cost nothing to get it, he picked up the phone to check the time: 5:55. Perfect. She would still be up, wouldn’t she, even if she wasn’t going out?
“Max?” she said when she picked up. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes; I just thought I’d wish you a happy new year your time.”
“Isn’t it the crack of dawn there?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” As per usual. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I should have texted first.”
“Oh, no, I was up. Why are you whispering? And what’s that noise in the background? It sounds like you’re on a bus.”
“Ah, no. I’m in a bathroom. That’s a fan. I’m . . .” About to get caught. Although, no. You had to be doing something wrong to get caught.
“Oh my god! Do you have a woman there?” She was exclaiming, but in a whisper, as if she, too, needed to keep her voice down.
“She wanted to paint me,” he said—as if he needed an excuse? “She’s an artist.”
There was a long pause, and Max started to fear he’d misstepped.
“So did she paint you?” Dani finally asked. “Was it any good?”
“Well, she drew me. We’re at my hotel, so she had to settle for a pen and hotel stationery.”
“Does she have a studio? Why didn’t you go there?”
Max hadn’t thought this through. Dani was the kind of person who noticed details. Details like whispering and background noise. And now they were going to have to talk about this.
He wasn’t sure why he was so reluctant. He’d called her because he’d been thinking how much he liked talking to her. This was as good a topic as any. “She suggested her studio, but I counterproposed my hotel. When I’m entertaining, I have certain guidelines for myself.”
“Like a list?” she said with a degree of excitement that perplexed him. He suddenly remembered her talking, when they were out for negronis, about how she should have put something on a list.
“I suppose it is a list of sorts. A mental one. I think of them more as rules of engagement.”
“So what are these ‘rules’?”
“One of them is to be, the, ah, host. Rather than the guest.”
“Why?”
“Because one never knows, when one departs from unfamiliar environs, what one is going to encounter.”
“What is one going to encounter?”
“Paparazzi, potentially. In Europe. That wouldn’t be a problem for me in America,” he rushed to add, but why? It wasn’t as if she was ever going to “host” him at her place.
“What other rules do you have?”
“Must we keep talking about this?”
“Yes. It’s good for me to hear. Not that I need to worry about paparazzi, but I could definitely use a lesson in the ethics of hooking up.”
“I wish you would stop calling it ‘hooking up,’ Daniela.”
“What should I call it? Making love? Ha!” She laughed, as if the idea was the most absurd thing she’d ever heard.
“All right, but for the record, I don’t think you should be entertaining men at your apartment.”
“Double standard much?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry about it, but it’s the way of the world. You don’t want to end up with a creep who knows where you live.”
“Point taken.”
“All right, well, there are really only three other things. First, I want anyone I spend time with in that manner to be unattached. Not that I’m the morality police, but things have gotten ugly once or twice when I didn’t realize that my companion was otherwise committed.” He snorted. “In fact, I developed that rule at the same time I developed the one about not going to other people’s houses. Or boats.”
She laughed. She had a low, melodic laugh. “This is the Depraved Duke origin story, isn’t it?”
“Daniela, have you been googling me again?” He was actually strangely, sharply pleased by the idea.
“Come on. If you were a commoner who suddenly found yourself friends with European nobility, you would be doing some googling, too.”
He was also strangely, sharply pleased that she had called him her friend.
“You, my friend”—he said it back because it was such a satisfying word—“Are anything but common. You are also about to hear a story nobody else knows.”
“Ooh. Hit me.”
“The so-called Depraved Duke incident was not what everyone thinks. It started when I met a woman at the Cannes Film Festival. She invited me to her yacht, and I accepted readily. Who doesn’t want to spend a day on a yacht in the French Mediterranean with a lovely, creative woman? She was a playwright.”
“You have a thing for artists.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The painter in the other room?”
“Ah.” He considered her theory. “It’s more that I find people who make things interesting, especially things that make other people think, like plays or art or books.”
“But most people who make things like that are poor. I’m surprised a playwright can afford a yacht.”
“Ah, see. That is why you are going to do well when you decide to pull the trigger on your sex app. You’re smarter than I am. It turned out the playwright could not afford a yacht. Her hedge-fund-manager husband, who fancied himself a film producer, could.”
“Ah. You didn’t know she was married.”
“I did not. I assumed. Which I no longer do.”
“So, what? You make them sign an affidavit?”
“No. I merely ascertain their status and communicate that I am only interested in a singular encounter—that’s the next rule. I want to make sure they know what they’re getting.”
“They’re getting it once?”
“Well, perhaps not strictly once. I am very good at it, remember.” She snorted, and he laughed. “My point is more that I don’t want anyone thinking they can catch the baron. I don’t want to encourage husband-hunting fantasies.”
“Which is ironic because you are a baron in need of a wife.”
“Do you want to hear this story or not?”